Paul Harley raised his aching head and looked wearily about him.
At first, as might be expected, he thought that he was dreaming.
He lay upon a low divan and could only suppose that he had been
transported to India.

Slowly, painfully, memory reasserted itself and he realized that
he had been rendered unconscious by the blow of a sandbag or some
similar weapon while telephoning from the station master's office
at Lower Claybury. How long a time had elapsed since that moment
he was unable to judge, for his watch had been removed from his
pocket. He stared about him with a sort of fearful interest. He
lay in a small barely furnished room having white distempered
walls, wholly undecorated. Its few appointments were Oriental,
and the only window which it boasted was set so high as to be
well out of reach. Moreover, it was iron-barred, and at the
moment admitted no light, whether because it did not communicate
with the outer world, or because night was fallen, he was unable
to tell.

There were two doors in the room, one of very massive
construction, and the other a smaller one. The place was dimly
lighted by a brass lantern which hung from the ceiling. Harley
stood up, staggered slightly, and then sat down again.

For a few moments he remained seated, victim of a deadly nausea.
Then, clenching his jaws grimly, again he stood up, and this time
succeeded in reaching the heavy door.

As he had supposed, it was firmly locked, and a glance was
sufficient to show him that his unaided effort could never force
it. He turned his attention to the smaller door, which opened at
his touch, revealing a sleeping apartment not unlike a monk's
cell, adjoining which was a tiny bathroom. Neither rooms boasted
windows, both being lighted by brass lanterns.

Harley examined them and their appointments with the utmost care,
and then returned again to the outer room, one feature of which,
and quite the most remarkable, he had reserved for special
investigation.

This was a massive screen of gilded iron scroll work, which
occupied nearly the whole of one end of the room. Beyond the
screen hung a violet-coloured curtain of Oriental fabric; but so
closely woven was the metal design that although he could touch
this curtain with his finger at certain points, it proved
impossible for him to move it aside in any way.

He noted that its lower fringe did not quite touch the door. By
stooping down, he could see a few feet into some room beyond. It
was in darkness, however, and beyond the fact that it was
carpeted with a rich Persian rug, he learned but little from his
scrutiny. The gilded screen was solid and immovable.

Nodding his head grimly, Harley felt in his pockets for pipe and
pouch, wondering if these, too, had been taken from him. They had
not, however, and the first nausea of his awakening having
passed, he filled and lighted his briar and dropped down upon the
divan to consider his position.

That it was fairly desperate was a fact he was unable to hide
from himself, but at least he was still alive, which was a matter
at once for congratulation and surprise.

He had noticed before, in raising his hand to his head, that his
forehead felt cold and wet, and now, considering the matter
closely, he came to the conclusion that an attempt had been made
to aid his recovery, by some person or persons who must have
retired at the moment that he had shown signs of returning
consciousness.

His salvation, then, was not accidental but deliberate. He
wondered what awaited him and why his life had been spared.
That he had walked blindly into a trap prepared for him by that
mysterious personality known as Fire-Tongue, he no longer could
doubt. Intense anxiety and an egotistical faith in his own acumen
had led him to underestimate the cleverness of his enemies, a
vice from which ordinarily he was free.

From what hour they had taken a leading interest in his
movements, he would probably never know, but that they had
detected Paul Harley beneath the vendor of "Old Moore's Almanac"
was certain enough. What a fool he had been!

He reproached himself bitterly. Ordinary common sense should have
told him that the Hindu secretary had given those instructions to
the chauffeur in the courtyard of the Savoy Hotel for his, Paul
Harley's, special benefit. It was palpable enough now. He
wondered how he had ever fallen into such a trap, and biting
savagely upon his pipe, he strove to imagine what ordeal lay
ahead of him.

So his thoughts ran, drifting from his personal danger, which he
knew to be great, to other matters, which he dreaded to consider,
because they meant far more to him than his own life. Upon these
bitter reflections a slight sound intruded, the first which had
disturbed the stillness about him since the moment of his
awakening.

Someone had entered the room beyond the gilded screen, and now a
faint light showed beneath the fringe of the curtain. Paul Harley
sat quite still, smoking and watching.

He had learned to face the inevitable with composure, and now,
apprehending the worst, he waited, puffing at his pipe. Presently
he detected the sound of someone crossing the room toward him, or
rather toward the screen. He lay back against the mattress which
formed the back of the divan, and watched the gap below the
curtain.

Suddenly he perceived a pair of glossy black boots. Their wearer
was evidently standing quite near the screen, possibly listening.
Harley had an idea that some second person stood immediately
behind the first. Of this idea he presently had confirmation. He
was gripping the stem of his pipe very tightly and any one who
could have seen him sitting there must have perceived that
although his face wore an unusual pallor, he was composed and
entirely master of himself.

Of the presence of a second person beyond the screen he was now
assured, for he had detected the sound of whispered instructions;
and sinking lower and lower upon the divan, he peered
surreptitiously under the border of the curtain, believing it to
be more than probable that his movements were watched.

This led to a notable discovery. A pair of gray suede shoes
became visible a few inches behind the glossy black
boots--curiously small shoes with unusually high heels. The
identity of their wearer was beyond dispute to the man who had
measured that delicate foot.